


Heaven's Light

by theyalwayssay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunchback of Notre Dame, Blindness, Churches & Cathedrals, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Paris (City)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 08:04:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyalwayssay/pseuds/theyalwayssay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is said that in the dark cloisters of Notre Dame, two men lurk in the shadows, both holy, both feared, both sacred. The peasants of Paris fear them both, one for his face, and the other for his soul. But together, they create one whole creature, one who rises from dark alleyways on wings of stone and song.</p><p>This is their beginnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven's Light

**Author's Note:**

> Best listened with: Disney’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame soundtrack (Into the Sunlight, Bells of Notre Dame, The Bell Tower)
> 
> So, I’ve been a little obsessed with a certain Disney movie recently…Hunchback of Notre Dame is just so good, like if you haven’t seen it already, go to Netflix and watch it right this second, or watch it again if you’ve already seen it, it’s the most beautiful thing and will make you laugh and cry and want to quit your job and go apply to Disney’s art department effective immediately. So, in order to combat the overwhelming obsession I’ve developed, I’ve done a bit of therapeutic writing. I don’t exactly know what to count this as, a crossover or an AU, seeing as I’m only using the setting and a small bit of the plot? I mainly just wanted the practice of describing a cathedral, and more importantly the sound of a choir in a cathedral, which I’ve always struggled to describe. I feel like I’ve made some small amount of progress in the first and last paragraphs. Although, has anyone else noticed how awfully difficult it is to write Winchester dialogue in an AU? I still can't master that delicate art of managing to write natural-sounding modern speech in a vintage setting. Perhaps one of you has suggestions on how to improve? Expect more fics, I’m on holiday right now and so will have a lot more time for writing! Leave a comment if you have any constructive criticism, and thanks for reading!

_Dies irae, dies irae_  
Dies illa, dies illa  
 _Solvent saeclum in favilla_  
Quantus tremor est futurus  
 _Quando Judex est venturus._

The choir sang with the force of a strong gale, voices lifted high in faultless harmony over the whispering sound of skirts over the stones, sending the dust swirling in a multitude to dance in the shifting, glittering sunlight pouring through the stained-glass like honey, mingling with the pale eyelashes of the closed eyes of children and glittering through the strands of fading hair of the withered old women clutching at their skirts with gnarled hands, grey and cracked as weathered statues. The song vibrated, rolling and pitching like something alive and writhing up to the very ceiling, where it broke and showered over the onlookers in a sound so powerful as to shake their very bones, the marrow jostling to hear more of it, their ribs and joints quaking like wind chimes. The sound churned and screamed as through to drown invisible ships in the storm of resonance, and Archdeacon Winchester closed his eyes, the better to ride out the storm.

There was a clamor, and the voices halted. Dean Winchester opened his eyes, noting the rustle of skirts and robes as the choir scuttled out of the way of two scuffling figures. A man in rags, a ragged cloth covering his head, was being dragged out of the church by the Bishop. The man stumbled on the dragging fabric, and the Bishop grabbed his shoulder roughly, pushing him forward toward the great wooden doors.

“Get out!” he hissed, as though wary of the other churchgoers hearing him. “How dare you show that ghastly face of sin in a house of God!”

The man hit his left side on the doorframe as the Bishop cast him out, giving out a cry of pain. The Bishop closed the door shut behind him, and the bright flow of sunlight was shut out as the shafts of sunlight slid from sight, covered by clouds.

“Please, continue with your song,” he said in the uncomfortable silence, waving his hand at the disassembled choir. They reformed, mumbling and tittering.

“Bishop Crowley!” called a voice from the throng. A red-haired woman walked forward, her headscarf tilted at a queer angle on the crown of her head, wisps of red coming out of her braid, as though she too had just been manhandled. “What is the meaning of this roughness? What had that man done to so offend you?”

“Do not raise your voice in anger, petulant child!” the Bishop snapped. “The man was caught attempting to pilfer a Communion goblet from the altar. The arms of God welcome all children, but not those who so clearly wear their sin on their sleeve, without a hint of shame. Now, I ask you, keep singing.”

The woman glared, then strode back down the aisle to her comrades. She whispered heatedly to them for several moments, before they turned to sing again, their voices lifted with more fire than previously, scorching and bitter.

_Quand les cloches sonnent, les cloches questionnent  
Dans les tours de Notre-Dame!_

But the Archdeacon didn’t hear them. He had already got up quietly from the pew and walked to the back of the church, quietly slipping through the massive doors.  
The square beyond was bustling, noisy in a cluttered, dank sort of way. Dark buildings loomed on all sides, like watchful parents, or perhaps like the leering faces of the gargoyles which dotted the church. Goats and sheep ambled past, chivvied along by tired-looking shepherds. Several men were loudly selling wares on the other side of the square, one of them playing a cheerful wooden flute, and a number of dark-skinned children gamboled through the passersby, pulling on the tails of the goats and reaching surreptitiously into pockets. The Archdeacon looked about, but there was no one in rags as old and filthy as those he had seen in the church.

Several guards ran past him, armor clanking in a near comical way, like children banging tin pots together. “You must return to the church, monsieur!” One of them ordered, his dark hair flying in the stiff wind like a pennant. “It is not safe out here. Do you not see the vagabonds?” he gestured vaguely at the square before him.

“What is there to be feared from children?” Dean replied. The men rounded a corner, and he strode off to follow them, his robes licking the ground and fluttering like wings along the rough stone.

Around the corner, crouching in the shadows, was a man, being pulled up by the arm by one of the soldiers. The man leaned back, and the hood covering his face fell back.

The face beneath the cloth possessed light blue eyes, so bright they seemed to glow in the shadows of the church. What skin was visible was clean and smooth as clouds, the hair a rich dark brown. Tears streamed down his cheeks, his mouth partially open as though trying to scream, trying in vain to pull away from the soldier.

“Monsieurs!” the Archdeacon cried, striding through the alleyway towards the three men. “Release him. Now.”

“We have orders from the judges, sir. They mean to clean up the square,” one of the soldiers replied, the man who was not holding the beggar.

“Before the laws of the judges comes the law of sanctuary. While this man is in the presence of the church, you cannot harm him. I will say it again, _release him!_ ”

The soldiers obeyed, stepping back, their eyes shadowed and wary.

“Now, the both of you,” he said quietly, glaring at them. “Be gone from here. The eyes of the church are watching you.”

The soldiers glanced up over the Archdeacon’s head, where statues loomed, carvings and statues of saints peering down at them through the gloom. They bowed quickly and retreated, their armor clattering and echoing against the stone walls.

Dean looked around. The figure had slumped against the wall and slid down to sit on the ground, his arms around his shoulders.

“Had I known what had happened to you, I would have tried to find you sooner,” the Archdeacon said, sitting down beside the man. No matter if his robes collected the grime of the alley. “What those soldiers did was cruel and criminal. I hope you can forgive them for any injustices they have inflicted on your person.”

The man opened his eyes, staring blankly down at the ground. Dean thought for a moment that he was unable to speak. Finally, his mouth opened, a voice croaking out that was rather like the wind whistling through a cavern, deep and dark and peculiar.

“Why do you speak to me, Archdeacon?”

Dean leaned back, confused. “You are no demon, no ghost, no spirit of any kind? No? Then why would I not speak to you?”

“I am no demon, but I am certainly no man,” he replied, looking up at the clergyman. “I am a thief even when I was only trying to pray. How can you not see it? Are you blind, too?”

“I see burns, and that is all. Nothing that should incense me,” he replied, his eyes scanning the man’s face. Blistered skin raked his cheek in fierce licks, almost resembling the lashes of a whip, streaking over one eye and burrowing passages through his scalp. The wounds looked nearly new, as though the man had only escaped the fires of Hell a mere fortnight ago. “What is your name?”

“Castiel.”

“There. You are no monster. Monsters don’t have names.”

“They certainly do, Archdeacon,” Castiel replied. “Names of Priest Lucifer and Bishop Crowley and Deacon Metatron. Horrible monsters indeed.”

Dean’s eyebrows furrowed. “It’s not wise to speak of the members of the church with such hatred. These walls have bigger ears than any other building in Paris.”

“I don’t care if they hear me. What can they do? Throw me out into the streets?” Castiel asked, his voice filled with blistering anger. “They’ve already taken my face, my home, my soul. What else could they possibly have left?”

“Stop that,” Dean replied harshly. “Either you stop speaking in riddles, or I don’t help you. Tell me what’s happened to you.”

Castiel sighed, his shoulders slumping against the wall, his eyes downcast. “I am not of this country,” he said after a moment, his mouth closing around the words as though he’d like to swallow them down. “I lived in a little cottage on the outskirts of the city, with the other Eastern immigrants.”

“I assumed you weren’t from here,” Dean replied. “Your accent is different from native Parisians.”

“If you’re from this city, then you don’t understand what it’s like for those who are not,” Castiel replied, his voice hardening. “They called us brutes and rats, and treated us horribly, saying that we weren’t wanted here. Finally, they set our village on fire. Every house, filled with sleeping families, old women and children. Many didn’t escape. When I woke to the flames, I was able to flee through a window, but in the process was burned. When I saw the men standing there with their torches, they were wearing the robes of priests. White against the orange of the fires. And I fled.”

Castiel looked up at the Archdeacon, his jaw firm and set. “You do not know what it’s like, Archdeacon. None of you. You don’t see anything but the walls of your church, and you don’t look anywhere but up. You’re governed by your own holy laws, and so you don’t have to be chained and beaten by the soldiers and the beggars and the saints. Not even you can hurt me now, Archdeacon Winchester, however angry you may be. I have sanctuary.”

Dean inhaled, biting the corner of his lower lip pensively. “How do you know who I am, Castiel?” he asked.

“There’s been stories about you. Rumours, floating about like water. They say that you’re not a normal minister of the church. That you perform a special service to Notre Dame, to keep her safe. I’m inclined to believe them.”

For a moment, Dean did not speak. He sighed, rolling his fingers in and out hypnotically. “Castiel, come with me,” he said, getting to his feet and holding out his hand. Castiel shied away from him as though he expected the Archdeacon to hit him.

“Where are you taking me?”

“I want you to come with me into the church. I’ll take you to the bell tower, where you won’t be bothered. I’d like to speak with you more, but it is getting late, and I must be in the church when evening Mass rings.”

Castiel stared up at him, his eyes slightly hazy and unfocused, his lips parted in confusion. Finally, he took Dean’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, following him towards the doors of the church.

***

“Stop fussing. The Bishop won’t come up here.”

“I don’t care about the Bishop. You’re hurting me.”

“Don’t be a child.”

Castiel slumped against the wall, huffing. “You’re not nearly as brimming with kindness as we’re told Archdeacons are supposed to be,” he mumbled scathingly.

“There’s only so much one can do with a situation like this,” Dean replied, dipping the cloth into a bowl of water. “If I’d known the wound would be so infected, I would have called for a physician.”

“And have him cart me out of the church? I’m perfectly happy where I am,” Castiel replied firmly.

“I will demand payment for my services,” Dean replied, pressing the cloth firmly against Castiel’s bare shoulder. “Tell me about your eyes. You called them blind, and yet it seems like you can focus on objects.”

“The smoke from the fire seeped into my eyes,” Castiel said. “and it slowly burned me. I can only see partially out of one eye, and even then it’s only vague outlines.”  
“Were you ever able to see Notre Dame before the fire?”

“No.”

“A shame,” Dean replied, shaking his head. “It’s like nothing else. Like the earth has grown a spine, and one of the knobs is sticking out of its back. Like a mountain. And there are glass windows…”

“Tell me about the windows,” Castiel said earnestly, looking up at Dean. “All I know is that they let in multi-coloured light, but there must be more to them.”

“Much more,” the Archdeacon replied. “Each window has a different picture on it, all made entirely out of coloured glass. Pictures of the Holy Mother Maria and the Holy Trinity and his Lordship, all in the greatest depictions of glass. If you look at them long enough, they look as though they’re alive. Like they could spread wings and fly away.”

“And the rooftops of the church are covered in pigeons,” Castiel continued. “Great white ones, yes? They fly away all at once when the bells begin to ring.”

Dean nodded. “Thousands of them, it seems. And the walls are covered in statues of saints, hundreds of them watching over the congregation, carved from stone. They can be intimidating at times, watching from the dark.”

Castiel nodded, his slight smile turning to a grimace as the cold cloth was pressed harder into his shoulder. His rags lay in a corner, waiting to be washed, and he was clothed in nothing but a blanket over his knees, the cold wind biting at his exposed skin. He’d already been scrubbed thoroughly, the Archdeacon rubbing at the dirt that coated him as though it was an incestuous sinner. Castiel felt red and raw, but somehow cleaner than he’d ever felt. Although, perhaps that was simply his surroundings.

“But, if you can’t see well, how do you know what you look like?” Dean asked, glancing up at him.

“I don’t,” Castiel replied. “I know that I have the appearance of a monster because that’s what people have always told me I look like.”

“But it shouldn’t matter what they say to you. It’s not their face.”

“Is is not the man who creates the monster, Archdeacon Winchester?” Castiel asked, his gaze coming to rest on the clergyman’s face. “What should it matter to me what I think of myself? The people of Paris believe that a sinful soul is present on the face. It can be seen like diseased spots on a cheek. The Lord doesn’t punish the pious with ugly features. Anyone who looks like me must be wicked indeed, and anyone who looks like you, Archdeacon, is surely nearly as pious as the residents of Heaven themselves. You should consider yourself very lucky.” Castiel’s voice rang with half resentment, and something else, quieter and softer. Admiration? Embarrassment?

“Feel free to check for yourself,” Dean replied, gesturing to his face. “I promise you that there is nothing remarkable there.”

Castiel paused, his eyes glassy. Slowly, his hand lifted, reaching for the Archdeacon’s face. It was as though he were holding his breath, afraid that too heavy an exhale might break whatever was standing before him.

His fingers came to rest on Dean’s forehead, the ragged, calloused fingertips light against his skin as they slid down to the bridge of his nose, spreading out under his eyes and to his cheeks. Dean closed his eyes as Castiel’s fingers barely brushed over his eyelids, pausing briefly on his lips, trailing past his chin and down to his neck, where the bare skin disappeared underneath the robes.

“Nothing remarkable,” Castiel repeated. “I disagree.”

Dean glanced up at the man sat before him, clean skin glistening dully in the pink sunlight drifting through the small stone window. The cloisters of the bell tower were made entirely of stone, strong and silent as sentinels, cold and dark as caves. It was a place of ultimate solitude, the only company being the shining bells hanging from the ceiling. It was a place that the clergyman had visited many times before, but there was something about seeing another man beside him in that small room, something about hearing twin breaths echo along the stone, that filled him more than the song, more than the chime of the bells. It was like something was unfurling inside him, feathery white wings, or the largest blossom mankind had ever seen, breathless and holy and impossible.

“You keep evil things out of the church,” Castiel continued quietly. “Your job is to protect the sacred grounds of Notre Dame from unholy evil. Tell me, how is that not remarkable?”

“I’d like you to stay.”

“Pardon?”

“You may live here. You told me that you have no home, and you could only serve to benefit the community of the church. Under the law of sanctuary, you cannot be harmed within these walls, and you now look respectable. Allow the church to be your home. You can live in the cloisters, and eat with the priests, and partake in the services if you like to. If you like, you can stay up here with the bells. Not that I’m forcing you to do anything of the sort. It’s your decision.”

But almost before he’d finished his sentence, Castiel was upon him, kissing his cheeks in show of gratitude. That oh-so-charming Eastern custom. “Thank you, Archdeacon,” he said between kisses, his voice sounding almost too serious than the situation warranted.

“Enough, enough,” Dean said, trying not to laugh as he pulled Castiel from him. “Do you hear that?”

Castiel stilled, and the two men listened as something oozed through the cracks in the stone floor to float in grand profusion about their ears.

“Come,” Dean said earnestly. Castiel pulled on his trousers, and clean shirt that Dean had laid out for him. Dean walked forward, taking Castiel’s hand. The two of them rushed down the narrow stairs, coming to a stop inside the heart of the church. The choir had fully reconvened, singing once more towards the ceiling of the church. The sound rang as loudly as the bells, shaking and stirring the very stones on which the building sat, as though it had half a mind to sit up and fly right up through the clouds. Dean closed his eyes once more, letting the sound fill him up, fizzing and sway, buoyant and neverending. The voices seemed to grow as one, merging and spiraling like a multi-coloured serpent. Dean opened his eyes and glanced at Castiel, who’s gaze was fixed on the singers. His eyes were wide, his hands slack at his sides, as though he’d just seen the coming of an angel, full of heavenly light. As though he half-expected wings to grow right out of his back, the bones snapping and cracking into place like breaking tree branches, the feathers unfurling like buds. Dean gazed up at the great glass windows on all sides, and out of the corner of his eye, for a single moment, he thought he saw a great pair of white glass wings flutter.

_Et les cloches sonnent, sonnent, sonnent, sonnent  
Sonnent, sonnent, sonnent, sonnent à Notre-Dame!_


End file.
